


Just A Well Spent Afternoon

by hydesboy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: just some strange friendship nonsense, these two didn't interact much in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydesboy/pseuds/hydesboy
Summary: Crowley is dramatic and Aziraphale had left for a handful of hours. Aziraphale and Anathema were curious about what would happen if Crowley and Newt were left to interact. Newt is having a timeFound this as a half written fic in my files, remembered I made an account on a hobby plane website for this, didn't find the website again but finished this anyway
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	Just A Well Spent Afternoon

It had been precisely nine days, six hours, seventeen minutes, and nine, no, ten seconds since Armageddon had been diverted by the Angel of the Eastern Gate, the Principality Aziraphale, and the Serpent of Eden, the fallen angel and no longer quite demon Crowley – or more specifically, helped to be diverted by them, as they were certainly not the only ones who had played a part in it – and thirty seven minutes and forty five seconds since the angel Aziraphale had left, the witch Anathema beside him, to explore a rare book sale that she had so conveniently caught wind of.  
Now, all this was perfectly reasonable and would undoubtedly end in a perfectly wonderful afternoon where the two can further develop their friendship over matters of shared interests, a witch and a particularly bookish bookshop owner that just happened to be an angel.  
But unfortunately, there was one who had been so dreadfully neglected and had not even been considered when the plans were made! Not that he really wanted to go, but the demon Crowley would never pass up an opportunity to dramatically drape himself over things and sigh loudly and lamentfully, as one should when presented the opportunity. It was a surprise that he hadn’t gone so far as to gently rest one of the paper roses the angel had scattered about in between his teeth – teeth that if one got too close they would realise they were far too sharp to be human, not that he allowed anyone to get close enough to be realising anything of any sort of nature – just to complete the look. But no, he had perched himself upon a table and was quite ready to grumble to himself the entire time before his angel returned, determined not to return to his own home for the entire time out of sheer stubbornness.  
All of this had been assumed to be precisely what would happen, however, and so the necessary precautions had already been made.  
Yes. The angel Aziraphale had predicted all this needless lamentry almost to the T, as they said, and so, for the scandalously long couple of hours of his absence, had gone and set about getting everything in order to prevent any undesirable whinings that he was quite certain was the inevitable.  
Standing in the doorway, looking altogether unsure of himself and holding a satchel with whom he seemed certain would lose its strap had he stopped his insistent fidgeting with, was a certain partially successful witchfinder private, and significantly less successful computer technician by the name of Newton Pulsifer, or simply Newt to his friends. The amount of those friends being irrelevant to the matter, and he would rather like to not consider the specific number thereof.  
The obvious nervousness of his demeanour was certainly not helped when he was met with a less than impressed growl – not that snakes were really known for their growling – from the snake demon, that one would have to take a moment to interpret at the word, “What?”  
Thankfully the distinctly more human visitor had been expecting something of this ilk, as the good bookseller (read: book collector) had the mind to warn him in advance, and so had some mind to have the explanation already on the tip of his tongue.  
“Mr. Fell had asked me to visit, to,” he quickly bit back the actual explanation of ‘to keep an eye on you’ and tactfully said, “Well, he thought it may be good to have some company.” Newt did not specify which of the two was in the need of the company, and which was the one supplying it, feeling as though this touch of the vague was the safest bet he could have. He’d seen snakes in the zoo unhinge their jaws to eat, and he’d rather like to avoid being on the undesired side of this, not that he was really sure to what extent the one of whom he now shared a space with could do the whole nasty unhinging business. He hoped that if all went well, he would still be in the dark on such matters.  
This was met with a raise of the other’s eyebrows that was so intense and well-orchestrated that it was visible above the dark glasses that adorned his face like a permanent fixture. It wasn’t a sceptical gesture, so this was somewhat of a relief, however this left two alternatives, neither of which were appealing. It could have either been in displeasure or amusement, and he wasn’t sure which he thought would be the worse option.  
Displeasure could make for undesirable outcomes, but amusement could be right embarrassing and that was a mortifying prospect.  
“I, uh,” he added, gesturing to the distinctly box-shaped shape in the aforementioned satchel, “Brought something that we could do, I’ve been saving this one to do with friends, and, well, so I thought it may be sort of fun to do now?” It hadn’t been intended as a question, but the infliction and general unsurety of his tone shaped it into one despite what his initial intentions may have been for it.  
Sitting up in a way that he felt was suitably dramatic for a fellow of his like, Crowley righted himself. For all the seemingly artfulness of this, he almost lost his balance and went tumbling onto the floor, which would certainly not have been very good for the impression of sinister style and grace that he had hoped to exude whenever possible.  
“And what,” the demon asked, “Is it that you thought would be fun?” The ‘s’ sounds were dragged out, though only part of it was due to his being a snake, for it was to a degree being exaggerated because he thought it sounded cooler and more daemoniac.  
Whether Newt’s disposition remained steady because of some hidden strength of character or simply because its default was already to be wavered and so wasn’t really able to be further wavered is entirely up to one’s personal opinion, and the opinion rather tragically differed depending on who you asked. The man himself was quite fond of the former, while the demon was quite sure of the latter. There was a third and less considered option that Crowley really wasn’t all that intimidating if he didn’t want to be.  
“It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s a flying fortress, swoose, and I though it looked-“  
“Hang on. It’s a what?” interrupted the flame haired chap, being oh so polite as to raise his palm up as he did so. He did, however interrupt so it was not exactly the most polite thing in the whole world, but he was a demon so that was rather appropriate.  
“Flying fortress, swoose, it’s a-“

“Swoose.” Once more interrupted Crowely, “Good word. What is it?”  
“Its an aeroplane. Model, of course, I don’t think we’d be able to fit a real one in here.” replied Newt, who had been trying to explain what it was each time he was rudely interrupted, his attempt at humour falling somewhat flat even to his own ears.  
“I reckon it could,” returned the serpentine demon, letting his head tilt just a little to the side in a way that he thought might look adequately dramatic for anyone who happened to see him, one hand up ever so gently brushing his cheek almost but not quite being leant on as he sat there in the sun, appreciating the drama of his own aesthetic, “But it’d be a pain to get out, so show me that swoose of yours.”  
The word ‘swoose’ rolled out wonderfully across his serpentine tongue, and would undeniably become a word he would try to throw into only slightly relevant conversations as often as he could get away with.  
With a nod of such an intensity that his glasses almost came tumbling off his face, Newt set about rummaging through the satchel he had brought. He drew out, in order, a napkin from a nearby café that he was using to clean his glasses, an empty packet that had once contained a cookie that he’d been meaning to throw away, and, of course, the box that contained the soon to be assembled model. Much like a nerd, Newt held the box up high over his head but thankfully did not let out the enthusiastic battle cry that he had felt to have almost been fitting.  
The time they had to make the plane went as follows:  
First fifteen minutes: The two took everything out of the box, and double and triple checked that absolutely everything was there, and that nothing was missing. Everything was then spread out across the floor in a way that they had rationalised as being practical in theory.  
Next five minutes: Spent looking for the propeller, which Crowley had been spinning on his finger until it had spun off and landed somewhere off in what might as well have been a completely different realm of being.  
Next sixteen minutes: Trying to determine the strange and illegible writing on the instructions, this ending in what was surely an unpleasant night’s sleep for the person that had printed said instructions as they were now on the bad side of a demon. It was decided that the words had been printed twice, the words not quite overlapping perfectly and so creating a not quite readable mess that they were supposed to decipher.  
Next singular minute: Spent waiting for Crowley to stop cursing and bringing plagues onto the houses of whoever dared print it in such a way. They proceeded to spend the next week with an itch right there in the center of their back that they couldn’t reach because they had perfectly normal arms that didn’t bend in odd and unnatural ways.  
Next twenty minutes: This was, surprisingly enough, actually spent with them making the model aeroplane, and was done with an almost impressive amount of industrialness.  
Next ten minutes: A tea break, not necessarily deserving but much enjoyed. During which, half a dozen biscuits were consumed and not quite half of these were dunked in tea, this stopping after one broke in half and fell into the tea, leaving a crumbly mess in the bottom of the cup that was a nightmare to reach when it eventually came to it.  
Next five minutes: Needed to coax a snake out of a warm and sunny spot that had been occupying while tea was being drunk. This was not how the instructions went, but the instructions were already damned, so it mattered not if they followed the steps perfectly. This was a terrible way to approach anything at all.  
Next forty-seven minutes: An actually decent amount of work was done, and the plane was beginning to take a respectable shape during this time. Even when a little too much of this time was spent trying to work out which piece it was that they were needing at any given time.  
Final three minutes: The last piece was missing. Aziraphale and Anathema return.  
It was a decent two hours and a minute spent doing mostly their project, and the fact that the very last piece was missing, the final fruit of their labour, had managed to vanish was infuriating to say the very least.  
“What the bleeding hell do you mean you don’t have it?”  
“I don’t! I could swear you were the last to have it."   
“Well, I don’t have it now, do I?”

Well, any awkwardness that there had been between the two at the start had been quite wonderfully dissolved. Unfortunately, it was currently replaced with an anger that was directed towards the world, once more to the person that printed the faulty instructions, and thankfully not towards each other.  
On the doorstep, Aziraphale gave Anathema a glance, and the witch returned this with a glance of her own given to the angel. They were both an amused sort of glance. The two, their arms positively bursting with their newly acquired books, could hear the ruckus going on indoors, and were quite delighted to find that their little experiment of throwing the two into obligatory association had gone by swimmingly.  
“Oh dear.” was all the angel could say when he stepped into the building, the interior made unrecognisable from the effort of searching for the one and only thing they needed to finish their task.  
The missing piece, Anathema happened to reveal after ten minutes of the three searching, the angel throwing himself into helping almost immediately, was in fact still in the box and had gotten trapped in the corner.


End file.
